The Voice, by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould
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- 32 -
It wasn't until I felt a nudge about waist high, that I
noticed the little man, a midget, in some distress. In his
super-human effort to reach the train he had wormed his way
to the very edge of the platform and now he stood, feet
dangling over the pit, his large oval face growing tense
It was at that moment that the crowd suddenly surged,
pushing hard on the little man and in an instant I found
myself reaching for him. He nearly took me with him as I
grabbed his shirt collar and dug in, his body swaying and
eyes bulging as the old train barreled into the station with
a roar and a hiss of brakes. But in that split second before
the plunge I'd managed to stop his descent and in another
second I'd righted the little man so that by the time the
train screeched to a stop, he had miraculously adjusted
himself to his dilemma.
"Mind the gap," the midget announced proudly as the doors
slid open and he hopped onto the train as if nothing
extraordinary at all had happened.
"Yes. Quite," I gasped as I stepped over the divide and
made my way to the end of the car, unable to take my eyes
off the stran
train groaned off, down the tracks.
"Oldest section of track in the oldest part of town." The
little man said, smiling back at me as he wobbled back and
forth while chewing on a large wad of what I assumed was
tobacco. "Not the most reliable."
"Or safe, either." I added, thinking back to the incident
on the platform.
"It all works out," the midget continued, his grin now
resembling a crescent moon. "John Pink's the name," he said
as he seemed to screw himself more comfortably into his
seat. "My friends call me Juicy."